'Why is your Pilates place the hardest club to get into right now?'

Business Insider

31-07-2025

Tera Studio & Pilates Club is barely a year old, but it's already harder to get into than New York mainstay hotspots like Torrisi and Carbonne.
Its address in New York's SoHo neighborhood is a closely-guarded secret. (Its distinctive red front door, which pops up on Instagram for those in the know, offers a clue.) The only way in is through a direct referral from one of its 300 members.
But Tera, where a 55-minute class costs $65, is selling more than exclusivity. "With the referral, we're almost filtering our clientele to be somewhat of the same person," says Georgia Wood Murphy, Tera's founder. By that, she means someone "that wants to invest in wellness, that wants to be on trend, and a part of what's hot in New York right now."
Murphy, who previously taught at Forma Pilates, the celebrity-beloved studio that Vogue christened "Los Angeles and New York's most exclusive exercise class," says the referral model allows her to keep classes to around six people and get to know everyone personally. She follows all of Tera's clients on Instagram. "I'm super interested in where they went to dinner Friday, because I probably want to go there as well," she says.
For an elite few, working out at an exclusive, invite-only studio is the latest chapter in Gen Z and millennials' obsession with the gym.
Gen Z, the swolest generation, has been flocking to gyms to lift weights and make friends. Along with millennials, they make up more than 80% of gymgoers. But this influx has meant that gyms are getting crowded, with members queuing up for a squat rack at the gym or dodging limbs in a packed class.
Now, more than a great workout, zoomers and millennials are looking for exclusive fitness communities with like-minded members who are serious about their workouts and willing to pay a premium for a more bespoke experience.
And these studios take the job of curating their membership seriously. "Would you post flyers on the street to invite someone to a dinner party at your house?" says Colette Dong, co-founder of the trampoline-fitness studio the Ness, which vets members before they're allowed to purchase a membership. "You wouldn't. You would curate the vibe."
Alice Berman, a 33-year-old novelist and a longtime client of Wood Murphy's, is among Tera's chosen few.
She works out at the studio seven days a week and appreciates that she can get into any class she wants.
The referral requests flooding Berman's Instagram DMs are proof of Tera's success. "Why is your Pilates place the hardest private members club to get into in New York right now?" one message read. There are currently 150 people on the waitlist, and an untold number of friends and strangers hitting up members in their DMs.
But Berman is ambivalent about being a Tera ambassador: she says she's referred just one person. "It sounds bad, but it's hard enough to get one of six spots in an 8 a.m. or 9 a.m. class," she says. "I can't be competing with more people."
It's the same logic she applies to the two other Manhattan clubs where she's a member, Casa Cipriani and Chez Margaux, which has a restaurant run by Michelin-starred chef Jean-Georges Vongerichten. "It's not about feeling special because you're a member," she said. "It's about actually enjoying a really good Pilates class or cozy dinner at Jean-Georges."
The Ness, Dong's trampoline studio in the nearby neighborhood of Tribeca, was also invitation-only when it first opened in 2019. Dong, a former professional dancer, hoped to cultivate an intimate community for the high-intensity, low-impact workout.
But then the Ness got popular, and they relaxed this policy. Now, anyone can attend a drop-in class for $48. But extra amenities like the infrared sauna and cold plunge are reserved for members — who must apply and who are judged on the energy they bring to class and how they interact with other members and staff. There are currently just 35 openings — membership tiers range from $160 to $720 a month.
Even the biggest spender could be turned away for giving out the wrong vibes. Negative body image talk is an immediate strike against you. "If they come in the door and they're like, 'I just ate 10 cookies, I need to sweat. I need to get skinny in 10 days, I'm going to the beach.' That for us is always a no," she says. "We don't want any of that energy in our community."
"Fitness in New York can feel very transient," Dong explains. "There are so many studios and classes, and people often hop around." She likens the experience to dating. "Your first visit might be like grabbing coffee or taking a walk—not a steak dinner. That kind of deeper investment comes later, when there's a mutual commitment," she says.
"Our membership works the same way. It's reserved for people who are truly engaged with what we offer and who feel aligned with our community."
Dogpound, a boutique Manhattan gym where Karlie Kloss, Taylor Swift, and Hugh Jackman have been known to work out, is already exclusive.
Until recently, Dogpound had planned to move to a referral-only model, says Xander Hodge, the gym's general manager.
Instead, Dogpound discontinued the most affordable — $708-a-month — membership, which covered just four personal training sessions a month. And they added a top membership tier that allows for unlimited sessions and costs $100,000 a year. The idea, says Hodge, is to preserve the feel of a committed, tight-knit community while ensuring the privacy of their A-list clientele.
On a recent afternoon, I was invited to try a group class. The all-black space was smaller than your standard commercial gym, sleek, but there were no frills — not even showers, though Hodge tells me they hope to add some as part of a planned expansion. After two sessions with the same trainer, clients are required to rotate to someone new, part of the gym's strategy to make sure everyone gets to know one another on a first-name basis.
There were just three of us — a mom of three who said she has worked out at Dogpound two times a week since 2020, and her friend, who occasionally tags along for a class. ("She is our reigning member," Hodge says of the mom after the class ended. "Anytime we have a charity event, she is the first one there bringing three friends!")
The workout was tough, a mix of dumbbell and bodyweight exercises and cardio. With so few of us, the individualized instruction was great. The class was also fun. I was surprised at how open my classmates were to socializing in between sets, chatting about weekend plans and bad dates. Two personal training sessions were happening nearby, and every instructor who passed our class introduced themselves with a friendly fist bump. One did a handstand.
It all felt remarkably warm and welcoming. Unlike the oversubscribed gyms and full-to-capacity SoulCycle classes I was used to, here I felt like I was working out among old friends. It was intimate and, yes, luxurious. As I left, I caught myself running the math to see if I could swing becoming a regular.
The next night, I joined Dogpound's Tuesday night run club on a running path along New York's Hudson River. The club is free and open to the public, but the seven other people who showed up were all current or former Dogpound members or staff. As we made our way past Battery Park, with a view out to the Statue of Liberty, half the group kept up a competitive pace — one was a serial ultramarathoner — while I hung back with the more talkative runners, keeping a more leisurely pace.
Corrie Aune for BI
I struck up a conversation with a fellow first-timer. She had joined Dogpound as a 30th birthday gift to herself and strength trains at the gym twice a week. Her enthusiasm echoed the feeling I'd had the night before: With fewer people around, it's easier to meet and bond with like-minded people.
It was a very different experience from Equinox, her previous gym. There, she says, she and her sister had split a single $325 membership card, passing it back and forth for months. The front desk, she said, never realized they weren't the same person.